The Walking Wounded
by That Buggy Girl
Summary: [sequel thing to Torn] Four years later, Michel is still piecing together his life. Who knew it could be so hard? [yaoiness]
1. Part 1

**Part 1**

He usually woke to an empty bed.

He didn't think much of it those first couple of months. He knew he was a late riser and not every one stayed in bed as long as he did. He was eighteen, after all. What was to be expected? Most of his life revolved around work and sleep. He never worked the morning shift unless it was a busy time of year –his choice, really. Now that he was done with school, he was done with early mornings.

No, Michel E. Conrad was by no means a morning person. Contrary to popular belief, he never really was as cheerful as he had looked all those mornings he'd been up early for this thing or that thing. All he had wanted to do, all those years, was curl back up in his bed.

He liked to bask in the sunlight when it streamed through the window and pooled on the bed. Or lounging, simply sprawling across the sheets, until he was fully awake. He liked that too. Sometimes, he just lay there until he felt like getting up. And it didn't matter whose bed, either. His own bed had soft, well-worn flannel sheets and a fluffy down comforter, while Free's was pristinely white, the sheets always cool and comfortable.

Free, knowing Michel loved being woken by the sun, almost always opened the curtains before he left. It was something of a ritual; the drapes were ceremoniously opened each morning as part of Free's preparing-for-the-day routine. It was the last thing he did before heading downstairs for his morning cup of tea; it was usually done before the sun managed to break through the clouds for the day. This gave Michel the opportunity to wake the way he most enjoyed, when the sun finally crept through the window.

This way, he could bask. Michel enjoyed sprawling -usually naked- in the warm sunshine as it beamed through the window. He did this (fully clothed, of course) on the couch as well, always seeking the sunniest spots when reading or watching TV. Ken had noticed and pointed this out once, which led to much teasing about how all his teammates were like cats in one way or another, himself included. Michel didn't mind though; he knew Ken teased because he loved.

He was naked that morning, naked in the brilliant summer sunlight as it poured through the window. He liked these mornings better than the other ones; there was just something about waking up naked on crisp white sheets in a room painted gold by the promise of nice weather.

He didn't _always _sleep naked. There were nights were nothing happened or nights which were too cold or nights where he simply just didn't feel like being naked. His pajamas were comfortable, too, of course. Chloe had even gotten him an emerald silk pair the previous Christmas, saying that Michel had long outgrown the plaid flannel he preferred. He had informed Chloe, blushing, a few weeks after receiving them, that the silk pajamas were rarely on him long enough to last the night and Chloe had laughed, telling him "that was the point."

Though he preferred them, there was a downside to naked mornings. All of Michel's self-inflicted wounds had long since healed over, of course, but the scars refused to fade. It had been a good three years or so since he'd last felt the need to mutilate himself –had it really only been three years? It felt like a lifetime- but he supposed the scars would never really go away. They would always be there, a reminder of his pain; his sins. They crisscrossed around, slashes running from the back of his thighs to the insides. That had been his choice spot; no one saw them there. They spanned across his stomach as well, creating faint pink horizons across soft flesh. There had been slip-ups; times when he tore at his upper-arms with his fingernails or he had been desperate and unwilling to undress and therefore just used the old standby – his wrists had been slit more times than he cared to count.

The brilliance of the sun made the scars stand out bright and pink against the paleness of his skin. Michel had always been tan as a child; he'd favored shorts and loved being outside. But as he grew and matured and became more aware of his body, he'd begun to cover up. He was ashamed of the scars; ashamed to let his own weaknesses show. And besides, they weren't exactly pleasant to look upon, especially his thighs when he wore shorts. Yuki had once compared it to a spider's web; the scars were all interwoven, all made of the same silky self-hatred and pain. The forget-me-nots with their silk-soft petals; that day in the storeroom…Michel still remembered vividly when Yuki had questioned why he did what he did.

He'd accepted that the scars would never fade. They were there and there they would stay. There was no point in lamenting over them; he covered them up instead. No matter the weather, Michel could be found lately in pants and long-sleeves, his body hidden from view beneath concealing clothing. Only Free saw him in anything less than that (and it was usually much less), but the older man had never made a single comment on the scars.

Thusly, his body had lost its tan. He had paled until he had that sort of washed-out complexion that looked all wrong for a blond. Now more than ever people were mistaking he and Chloe for brothers, a mistake that was easily justified once they were overheard in a conversation. There was no denying their accents were very different. Nevertheless, Michel was no longer the tanned, impish child he had once been. He was still thin, but he'd grown a couple inches and, at eighteen, was pale and spindly, like a plant that had seen too little sunlight.

He still was –and always would be- the baby of the group. Even Yuki continued to watch out for him, though the difference in their ages was only that of about eight months. Michel never wanted them to stop; he liked feeling protected and looked after. He liked how every one was so concerned for his well-being and knew their concern was born from love, rather than worry over his mental-emotional state. They never discussed the hours upon hours of therapy he'd gone through since the Autumn Café incident, never discussed the incident at all, unless he brought it up.

He never brought it up; never discussed it. Not even with Free. It was something he'd had to work through on his own and he had. He'd come to terms with everything that had occurred in his life as a teenager and, with his nineteenth birthday only a few short months away, he was pleased with the way his life was going. He had his makeshift family, he had his job and, most importantly, he had Free.

Free who adored him. Who catered to his every whim and spoiled him intentionally. Who had become his strength and saving grace. Who encouraged him, took care of him and made him feel good.

Who left him alone in bed, every single morning.

Michel stretched, yawning and pushing a stray curl out of his face. Not only was the curtain open, the window was as well, allowing the morning sounds of a bustling street and the gentle breeze to filter into the room. It wasn't often that they had mornings quite so sunny, even in the summer, and he cherished days like this. Only one thing could make it better. He wished that, just once, he would wake to find Free still curled protectively around him.

He knew Free was an early riser; that he felt useless if he stayed in bed after he'd awoke. But that didn't stop Michel from hoping that, on a morning such as this, he would open his eyes to find Free still with him, just once. It was all he asked. He wished that Free would just indulge himself for once and take the time to be selfish and stay in bed.

Pouting, he yawned again and rolled over onto his stomach, snuggling a pillow. He pressed his face against the cool linen, sighing softly. It would probably help if he told Free he wanted him to sleep in someday so they could wake up together, but he didn't want to be more of a nuisance. He was already plenty spoiled. He just hoped that it would cross Free's mind to stay without his hinting at it.

He pushed himself up into a sitting position and leaned back against the headboard, taking a moment to examine a few of the scars. Sitting cross-legged, he could easily see the ones running along his inner thighs. The vast majority of them were clustered there, woven together in geometric patterns. He had always carved straight lines into his flesh; he'd never felt a need to do anything fancy or artsy. As long as he bled; as long as he stopped feeling…That had been what was important. So it was lines, straight and methodical, almost as if he had been a bit anal retentive about how he'd done it.

Free traced them, sometimes, calloused fingers stroking softly over the pink lines. He did it almost obsessively; though he never commented on them, he was always touching during the aftermath, always looking thoughtful.

At times like that, Michel wondered what was on his mind. What was he thinking as he inspected the scars, as he caressed them so gently? As a reminder of the he'd failed to protect Michel, did they make him sad? Was he ashamed on Michel's behalf? Did he view them of a sign of past weakness and foolishness? Failure, unhappiness, pain…There were so many things those scars stood for. Which meaning was it that Free thought upon when that serious, thoughtful expression crossed his face?

Michel knew there was one more option, one which spurred his desire to conceal his body from view. He was ugly. His body was an ugly mess. There was no way around it; he had spoiled himself, made himself unappealing. That had been the intent, hadn't it? He'd simply wanted Thomas and his cronies to stop saying how pretty he was and he'd reasoned that if he made himself ugly, maybe they would leave him in peace.

Maybe it had worked too well. Cold fear began to flow through his veins. Maybe…Maybe Free didn't stay in the morning because he didn't want to see in such bright light, when the scars stood out more. Maybe he really was ugly.

He drew his knees up to his chest, hugging them. Free couldn't think that…Could he? He knew there was more to a person than looks and that Free wasn't superficial at all, but still…It was there, like some grey cloud, hanging over them. They never spoke of it, so how was Michel supposed to know what Free thought?

He blinked back sudden tears. He wanted to be perfect for Free, but it was a little late for that. He doubted the older man really cared, but he wanted to be someone Free could be proud of, not the sad little kid he had been when he'd ruined himself. He was broken, he was torn…Damaged goods. Even after all the therapy sessions, all the progress he'd made, it all came back around to this. It all came back to his own insecurities.

He wiped at his eyes. Crying wouldn't help anything and he wasn't going to do it. There was no point in supposing things that probably weren't true. That kind of thought always got him in trouble.

He slid off the bed. It was about time he dressed and got going for the day. The wooden floor was cool beneath his feet as he crossed the room to his designated drawer in the dresser. What to wear? It was already looking to be very hot; the room was like an oven, despite the breeze wafting in through the window.

Loose, cotton pants would probably be best. It was April and it was hot. No point in putting on things which would make him even hotter. He found a pair of pale blue drawstring pants. Perfect…Light, airy and comfortable. Good for a hot day.

In the past, he had favored bright colors and patterns, but all of his clothing had been toned down a bit as he got older. Earthy tones were his current favorites, mossy greens which matched his eyes, browns and creamy whites. All of his clothes looked faded and worn -they were more comfortable that way- but they were all of the finest quality. It was Free's influence; he knew that. But he liked it when they matched.

Once the pants were on, Michel padded down the hall to his room to fetch a shirt and his favorite sandals. Until about a year ago, he'd worn boots most of the time. He had loved his brown boots, but they simply didn't mesh with his recent taste in clothing. With all of his loose, soft clothes, leather sandals were a much better choice when it was warm enough that his feet wouldn't freeze.

As he buttoned his shirt and attempted to comb the snarls out of his unruly hair, he reflected for a moment on the changes he'd made in his appearance over the past few years. His wardrobe had been a big change; he'd once worn bright, slightly feminine clothing, but everything had somehow become pale and earthy, all of his colors had a light, greyish overtone. Chloe had once remarked that the bohemian look he'd acquired worked for him, especially since his hair was a bit longer and the curls were always in his face. Aya hadn't been so kind; his comment had been that Michel looked like a disheveled university student, which had made the young man laugh.

He had fought tooth and nail with KR about going to a university. He and Aya had wanted Michel to carry on with his schooling, like Yuki, but after the years of struggling through secondary school, he opted not to. His life had been hard enough and he figured it didn't need to be any more stressful. Twelve years of school were plenty. Unlike Yuki, Michel did not like to be stressed out. Besides, he knew what he was doing with the rest of his life. It was simple…It would be the same as his life had always been. The shop, the occasional bits of assassin work, and Free. He didn't need a higher education to handle any of that and he was perfectly content to spend the rest of his life at the Kitten's House, no matter how upset KR got over it.

The smell of coffee greeted him as he descended the stairs. That meant either Yuki or Ken or both were in the kitchen because they were the only two members of the household who drank coffee. Free, Chloe and Aya all preferred herbal tea. Michel himself drank Earl Grey.

As it turned out, both of the caffeine addicted men were in the kitchen. Yuki was slumped down in a chair at the table and, from the looks of him, he'd undoubtedly pulled another all-nighter. Ken was filling Yuki's favorite mug for him; Yuki liked it black and the smell was nearly overwhelming.

Ken handed the steaming drink to Yuki and emptied the last of the pot into his cherished football mug. If the pot –which held six cups- was already empty, that meant Ken was on his fifth serving…Michel shuddered at the thought of any one with so much caffeine in their system and began cleaning the coffee maker so he could boil water for his tea.

"Morning chibi." Ken was stirring about a cup of sugar into his coffee, which made Michel –again- want to cringe.

"Good morning, you two." He murmured, smiling to himself as grunt of acknowledgement came from Yuki's direction. Once the coffee pot was heating his water, he set about making toast. "Were you up late working on a paper last night, Yuki?"

"He had a date last night." Ken grinned, "With Haku."

"Ohhhh…" Michel nodded knowingly, pulling the butter out of the fridge, "Up late, but not with a paper, then." It was no secret what Yuki did when he was out at night. He was always sort of float-y the following day and besides, there were nights when Haku stayed over and then every one knew just what they were doing. Yuki was _loud_.

"He's not the only one who was up late last night though, was he?" Ken arched a brow over his mug and Michel blushed.

"It's not like you didn't know…You've been warned and you've had nearly a year to get used to it." He mumbled as his toast popped up. Thankfully, he was able to distract himself by buttering said toast, which saved him from further embarrassing conversation about his love life with Ken.

"Oh, I know." Ken waved a hand dismissively, "We all know. You're not exactly quiet, ya know."

"Ken!" Michel felt his face heat up and he whirled around the face the older man, hair bouncing in his eyes. He brushed it away and attempted a glare, which came out more like a pout. As usual. "Please stop." He was close to begging; it didn't matter how long it had been, he would always be shy about it. Chloe teased him unmercifully and Ken poked fun at him about it periodically, solely because they both knew he would blush.

"Aww, but pestering Free about it is no fun!" Ken pouted, slurping down the last of his coffee. "He just stares at me like I've got two heads or somethin'."

"Has it occurred to you," Michel took a bite of his toast, "That maybe neither of us appreciate your constant comments about," Here he blushed again, "Our sex life?"

"Just keeping things real." Ken grinned at him, setting his mug in the sink and stretching.

"You know it would be really boring here without me to keep you all on your toes. 'Sides, you chibis are the most amusing to tease…You both blush easily."

"Chibi my ass." Yuki grumbled, running a hand through his hair, "I'm only an inch shorter than you now, remember?" He had gotten taller a couple of years ago, making the two small inches Michel had grown look like nothing. Yuki still had the scruffy look of a street kid; he still wore torn jeans and scuffed All-Stars and he always looked as if he was in need of a haircut.

"Yeah, yeah." Ken was having fun with this. Far too much fun, "You're still shorter than me…chibi." He tossed another grin over his shoulder on his way out of the kitchen, pausing in the doorway. "I'm going to visit Kurumi-chan, if either of you want to come."

Yuki made a disgruntled sound in reply, slumping further in his chair and sipping his coffee. Michel frowned softly at him at his rudeness, then looked at Ken. "No; thank you. I have shop duty this afternoon." Michel was relieved he had a plausible excuse. He liked Kurumi; really he did. But some days he just couldn't handle her blinding optimism. It reminded him too much about how he had been in the past. She had the kind of energy Michel once did and it sometimes exhausted him just being near her.

"All right then. See you guys later." With a wave over his shoulder, Ken was gone.

Yuki was staring blearily into his coffee. Michel took another bite of his toast. If there was any one who was less of a morning person than him, it was Yuki. Which actually made Yuki rather…There was no nice way to put it, he was bitchy. Especially after he had been up late. Especially if Aya informed him, when he was leaving for the evening, that he was not to stay overnight at Haku's. Last night had undoubtedly been one of those nights, as Yuki seemed to be in a particularly grumpy mood.

Michel chewed on a crust thoughtfully. Yuki had always been dreadfully protective of him, ever since that night years ago that he'd stumbled into the bathroom and found Michel in the midst of slicing open his legs. But they'd been growing apart…Ever since Yuki had started college and Michel had settled into a life of solid routine, which his therapist said he needed. If he were less of a person, he would have thought that Yuki was abandoning him, but he knew better. It was more like Yuki had fully relinquished the smaller teen to Free; like he'd finally stopped worrying that Free couldn't protect him on his own.

It made him happy that Yuki approved.

"Can you take care of the dishes?" Yuki was rubbing at an eye, his glasses askew on his face, "I've got class in half an hour and I need a shower." He yawned widely, scratching at his shoulder and pushing his hair out of his face.

"Of course I can." Michel offered him a soft smile. "I've nothing better to do at the moment. You go shower so you're ready when Haku gets here." He rose from the table, gathering his plate and Yuki's mug and heading towards the sink.

"Thanks." Another yawn and Yuki managed to drag himself from the chair, "If he gets here before I come down, tell him I won't be long."

"Aye." The smaller boy was already rinsing the dishes and filling the sink basin with sudsy water. He hummed to himself softly as Yuki shuffled out of the room. He had this habit of letting his mind wander when performing a mindless task such as washing the dishes. Only Aya seemed to be under the impression that this was a bad thing; he was always frowning when that dreamy, vacant expression crossed Michel's face. Michel thought it had something to do with the way he used to detach himself from everything; he figured Aya was simply worried about him.

The breakfast dishes barely took any time at all. There weren't many of them; only Ken and Yuki believed in eating large breakfasts and Yuki was rarely up in time to eat one. It was predominantly a collection of mugs and coffee cups which needed washing every morning. A household rule had been established that the last person to leave the kitchen was the one to do the dishes, and that usually wound up being Michel or Yuki. Sometimes Chloe, if he even bothered to have breakfast.

The dishes done, Michel padded down to the shop. He usually went for a walk in the morning before his shift at the shop and part of his routine was checking in with every one else before he headed out.

Aya was setting out displays and watering things. In heat like they'd been having lately, the plants needed watering several times each day and Aya was particularly anal about the task. The heat seemed to be making him exceptionally grouchy; he'd gotten into an intense argument with Ken about the proper way to water and spritz the plants the plants only the afternoon before. The redhead nodded a hello to Michel as he passed by, his gaze still focused on the small tree he was currently watering.

Free was behind the counter, making sure the register was in order. Michel watched for a moment as he counted and recounted the bills and change in the drawer, making notes of how much of each there was.

The shop had been open a couple hours already, but some mornings were slower than others and even Aya got slightly lazy on hot days. It was late August and London was having an unexpected heat wave; the rest of the summer had been a steady seventy degrees or so; no one had thought it would suddenly jump from seventy-two to a sweltering ninety-five in only a matter of days and the heat was making them all lethargic.

Fortunately, the shop was air-conditioned.

Before he got a chance to greet Free, the bells on the shop's door jangled, signaling the arrival of a customer. Or –Michel glanced at his watch- Haku, who arrived at precisely ten forty-five every morning to collect Yuki.

The blond smiled at his friend's lover. "Hullo, Haku."

Michel liked Haku. Even after nearly four years, he was still polite and somewhat shy with the bunch of them and he was quiet, a quality that Michel liked in another person. Haku was still the same; pretty, tiny and gentle. Yuki had always loved the way Haku looked, right down to his near waist-length hair, and the petite Japanese boy had never changed a thing about himself.

"Ohayo." Haku smiled shyly in return, pulling his hair over his shoulder and twisting it into a loose braid. Michel envied that hair; it was so thick and shiny and, most importantly, straight. The blond liked his own curly mop, but, well, it sometimes got annoying. "How are you feeling this morning, Michel-kun?"

"I'm okay." The smile became a little strained. Michel hated when people asked after his well being; it made him feel like they thought he couldn't look after himself. "Yuki is getting dressed. He'll be down in a couple minutes."

Haku nodded and, spotting Aya across the shop, padded off. Michel frowned softly, wishing Yuki hadn't told Haku everything about him. While the blond could understand his friend's desire to confide in his lover, it was really none of Haku's business what went on in Michel's life.

"Why do you not just tell him that you do not appreciate his asking you that every morning?" Free asked quietly, counting out a handful of coins and placing them in the appropriate compartment in the drawer.

Michel shrugged. "I think it makes him feel like he's doing something to help. What's the harm in letting him believe that?" He twirled a curl around his finger, green gaze never leaving Free's face. "Besides," He smiled impishly, a faint echo of what he had once been, "It's become something of a routine and Doctor Schulz says routine is good for me, yes?"

"Ja." The other man nodded in agreement, the barest hint of a smile crossing his face, "And Haku does care about you, even though you do not know one another particularly well."

"Aye; he does." Michel glided across the room to the counter, looking up at the man who had loved him nearly his entire life. Free had said more than once he was lucky to have Michel; but the young man thought the opposite to be true. He was incredibly lucky to have Free in his life; he didn't know where he would be without him.

"Your hair is getting long." Free reached over, long fingers stroking through the untamed curls and Michel shivered.

"Should I cut it?" He asked softly, "It has been a while since my last trim…"

The other man shook his head. "Leave it as it is. It suits you."

"You think?" Michel peered up through the bangs falling in his eyes, "It gets in the way, at times. And it's not the best in this weather…But it's not as bad as Haku's, I suppose. I can't even begin to imagine how he can stand having so much hair when it's so hot."

"Yuki likes it; that is why Haku puts up with it." Free commented mildly, dark gaze casually examining Michel as if looking for something askew. "I know you hate when I ask, but are you unwell?" He paused, "You look unusually serious this morning."

"I was just thinking…" Michel leaned against the counter, propping his chin up on his hand and tapping one foot lightly against the floor.

"Oh?" Free quirked a brow, "Thinking about what?"

The younger man fidgeted under his gaze. It was far from the appropriate time and place for this discussion, but before he realized what he was doing, he'd blurted it out. "Am I ugly?"

Free's eyes widened slightly. "Ugly?" He repeated softly, "How could you possibly think that you are ugly?"

Michel pushed back from the counter, turning away. It drove him crazy when Free answered a question with another question. "You've seen what's under my clothes…I'm a mess." He whispered, "I made myself ugly."

He started; surprised at suddenly finding himself lifted, turned round and sitting on the counter facing Free so that they were eye to eye. Dark eyes peered into his as Free looked at him, gaze sad. "You are not ugly, Michel. Far from it, you are beautiful. What you did to yourself does not change that fact." He stated quietly.

"You have to say things like that." He felt bad the moment he said it, but he couldn't help himself, "You have to say it because we're…well, you know. But that doesn't make it true. I'm not beautiful." Michel looked away again, ashamed for thinking such things, but there were just too many insecurities for him to not think them. "Don't think I haven't noticed how you touch all of my scars when you're holding me; that I missed the look on your face when you do it. You wish they weren't there, don't you? That's why you never stay in the morning. You don't want to see…" He could feel his throat restricting. If he looked at Free, he would start to cry.

"Michel…" Free gently turned the younger man so that they were eye to eye once more. He looked sad and Michel felt guilty. "You do not understand. Each and every scar on your body, regardless of where it came from, is a reminder of how many times I could have lost you and how lucky I am to have you. And yes, I have seen what is beneath your clothes and I have enjoyed it very much." He quirked a brow, half a smile tugging at his lips, "Especially the things of which no one else is aware."

Michel blushed. "Like the tattoo?" He asked shyly.

A crooked grin crossed Free's face. "Exactly." The tattoo had both surprised and pleased him. Michel had never seemed like the body art type. Nevertheless, a small, scrawled version of Free's name had appeared over his tailbone, just above where the curve of his ass began. It was inked dark green in Celtic script, with a pair of feathery angel wings framing the "F" and the second "E." Free had discovered it there on Valentine's Day; how Michel had managed to get it done without him finding out was still a mystery, but he'd been told that it was part of his Valentine's gift.

"As for not staying in bed in the morning…" The older man continued, his hands rising to settle on Michel's narrow hips, thumbs stroking teasingly through loose fabric, "If I were to stay with you, neither of us would ever leave the bed."

The little blond blushed brighter, squirming at the feather-light touches and ducking his head. "That wouldn't be a bad thing!" He rushed out, blushing all over again, "Although…" His green gaze slid to the side, taking in Aya still watering the plants, lost in his own little world, "I can't imagine Aya would allow us to remain in bed all day."

"I can't imagine Aya would ever allow you to sit on that counter, either." Chloe had appeared in the room, immaculately groomed as usual, with a newspaper tucked under his arm and a mug of tea in his hand. He was watching the couple with a brow arched, waiting for Michel to remove his bottom from the counter at which he was to position himself.

"Sorry!" The teen squeaked, face still pink. He slid hurriedly off the shelf, ready to make an escape before Chloe started teasing, but Free caught him by the arm and tugged him close, fixing a "not a word" glare on the older blond. Michel buried his face in Free's chest, willing the persistent blush away as Free stroked his hair fondly.

"I apologize, Michel." Chloe spread the newspaper open on the recently vacated counter, "It hadn't been my intent to embarrass you…this time." He offered the teen –who peeked out at him- a winning smile and Michel stuck his tongue out in response.

Michel looked back up at Free, cheeks and nose still pink. "I'm going now." He said, arms still wrapped loosely around his taller companion, "I'll be back in a little while. And yes, I have my cell phone in my pocket." He smiled sweetly, teasing; Free worried over him every time he left alone.

One of Free's large hands rose, gently brushing back Michel's curls. He ducked down to press a soft kiss to the smaller man's forehead, ruffling his hair fondly. "Be safe." He would have loved to give Michel a proper kiss, but Aya was particularly vehement about there being no public displays of affection in the shop. He didn't care if they hugged, but other than that…Aya thought it was improper conduct in the workplace.

"I will." Michel nuzzled the hand affectionately, hugged Free again and padded towards the door, waving over his shoulder at Chloe.


	2. Part 2

_Part 2 _

Michel was so thin, the heat didn't really bother him all that much. On the contrary, he was usually chilled, no matter the weather. He had mentioned this to Doctor Schulz once, who had informed him gently that it was probably because his body was still undernourished; he had spent too many years refusing to eat properly. He had shrugged at her reply; she knew why he didn't eat and, anyway, there was no way to change the past. He would never be able to eat large meals again.

His need to control his own destiny had figured largely into his near year-long fast. So many things in his life had been planned for him –from what school he would attend to when he would work to where he purchased his clothes- that he'd simply wanted control over something and that _something_ had become what and when he ate. Pretending to eat had simply become a part of the routine.

It had gotten bad for a while and he'd begun to waste away. No one had really noticed at first; he had always been petit. But as his cheekbones became more sunken and his pants had started drooping without the aid of a belt, his teammates had slowly begun to take notice. It wasn't until the day of _the incident_ that any of them really began to grasp just how fucked up he was; when they were cleaning him up after rescuing him from the Autumn Café's bathroom, they had been shocked to realize that each and every rib could be counted through his skin.

Free, as his friend, and Ken, as the team's self-appointed chef, took more of an interest in his eating habits after that. He was watched at mealtimes and his sugar intake was severely restricted. Unless it was a special occasion, he'd only been given ice cream once a week, a horrifying notion in itself, really, but one which he was willing to grudgingly accept, lest he be told he could never have ice cream again. It didn't make him happy; far from it. He hated having people so involved in his life unless he choose to make them so and that he did not.

In the three years or so since this diet had been shoved upon him, however, he had gained a grand total of five pounds. Not that much at all, but he couldn't help it. He just couldn't eat a lot of food, too much made him sick to his stomach, an idea which Ken just couldn't seem to grip. It wasn't a typical night if Michel didn't stare at his plate for at least half an hour, trying to decide why Ken wanted him to eat so much food when he'd been told time and again that not every one was a bottomless pit like he was.

His daily walk took him past the little bakery he used to stop at after school sometimes. He had liked their snacks and their prices and had bought desserts there often when he was younger. The owner knew him by name, knew his favorite treats and knew never to offer him anything with banana in it.

Michel hadn't been in the bakery, however, in a number of years. There was no point in going in, after all, when he couldn't purchase any of his favorite desserts. It was like picking at a wound…sometimes, you couldn't help it, but picking only made it worse.

As he was walking by that morning, something compelled him to enter. Perhaps it was a desire to make sure the same woman worked there or to know whether or not they still sold the éclairs he had loved so much; he wasn't sure exactly why.

A small bell attached to the door jangled as he pushed it open and he almost took a step back at the sudden assault of long-forgotten smells. Cinnamon, chocolate, ginger…How he had missed baked goods in his life. Ken made them, of course, but Michel wasn't allowed to eat them, unless his weekly food intake met with Free's approval, something which happened rarely.

There were a few people milling around, eating muffins and drinking coffee. Some of them had newspapers. Michel tried to ignore them as he crossed the threshold, but no matter where he went, he always felt like people were looking at him and it made him nervous. Perhaps it was because of what he was; he wondered sometimes if they could tell he was gay. He certainly didn't do anything to stop people from thinking so, even if his clothes weren't as feminine as they had once been. He also wondered sometimes if they could tell how fucked up he was. He certainly wasn't "normal" and he wondered if it showed. Were people always judging him or was he just being paranoid?

He padded over to the counter, green gaze lingering for a moment on all the cakes and pastries on display. There was indeed a tray of éclairs; they looked heavenly, covered in gooey chocolate frosting. He wanted to buy one very badly. How would Free ever know?

He was tempted. Very tempted. But a nagging little voice in the back of his mind protested, saying he would only feel guilty if he went against his lover's wishes. Free was only concerned for him, after all, and wanted him to be healthy. Besides, he had been warned against suddenly ingesting things that were not all-natural. After the strict diet he'd been on the last three years, that much sugar could make him sick.

Instead, Michel looked to the woman at the register. She was busily rearranging a tray of biscuits; they seemed to have slid out of place when she set them on the shelf. Her brown hair stuck up every which way and she looked a little frazzled, but that was exactly how Michel had always remembered Miss Julia Baxter. That, and kind. She had always struck him as a motherly woman who seemed to know every one who came into her little shop and he liked that.

"Excuse me…" He murmured politely, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. He wondered if Miss Julia would remember him; he looked a little different now and he hadn't been around in a long time. He had also toned himself down a bit; he was no longer the bouncy, cheerful thing he had appeared to be three years ago.

"What can I get for you?" Julia pulled her head out of the display case, pushing her tortoiseshell glasses up her nose. She didn't show a single sign of recognition, however, and Michel couldn't help feeling a little hurt. Had he really changed so much?

"What…?" He paused for a moment, soft green gaze scanning the display again, "What do you have with no sugar?"

"I have a few goods baked with Splenda." She waved a hand towards a small display of cookies and cupcakes, all frosted in a dizzying array of colors. Just looking at them made Michel feel a little queasy and he quickly shook his head.

"Splenda is made from sugar." He said softly, "I can't eat that." What he really wanted to do was scream at her; shake her and yell, "_Hey; you know me, remember? I'm that cheerful little bugger who doesn't like bananas!"_ It hurt for a moment; had he truly changed so much in the past three years? He thought he had at least managed to maintain his appearance to some degree. Three years later, save for the two inches he'd grown and the length of his hair, he hadn't really changed all that much. "Do you have any diabetic-friendly items?"

He hated asking that question. Michel was far from diabetic. He just wasn't allowed to eat sugar. It made him hyper and gave him a sugar high, during which he felt pretty damn good, but when the high crashed, he was always exhausted and miserable. Free had explained this to him once, patiently, and Michel had become a bit of an expert on what sugar did to the system.

"These muffins are made with applesauce." Julia indicated a tray, "And these are oatmeal banana. Normally, I'd have blueberry as well, but they're sold out for the morning." She chattered on about how sorry she was over the lack of options for a poor diabetic person and how young he was –he wondered if she thought he was about fourteen; it was still a common misconception- to have to deal with something like this and that she didn't often get diabetics in the bakery.

"One of the applesauce ones will be fine…" He murmured faintly. He wondered vaguely how people had put up with him when he had talked incessantly and began to feel infinitely sorry for any one who'd had to listen to his childish rambles.

"Sure thing, hon." She reached in and extracted one of the muffins, wrapping it in a white paper bag, "Can I get you anything else?"

"A small iced chai, please." Michel had had chai for the first time only a few months ago, when Free had taken him to a smoky little teahouse in a tiny, out-of-the-way place somewhere on the edge of town. He'd wondered how often the older man had gone there in the past. It certainly was his kind of place; it was full of quiet, mystical-looking people reading Tarot spreads and sipping steaming drinks while conversing in hushed undertones.

Michel left the bakery feeling slightly disenchanted. Why had he liked that place so much when he was younger? He didn't even really want the muffin and the chai certainly wasn't as good as what Free had bought for him at the teahouse. And Miss Julia hadn't even remembered him…Granted, she probably had a lot of customers, but he had been in there nearly every afternoon for two years. It did hurt a little bit and it made him feel slightly invisible, a feeling he hadn't had in a while.

He sipped the chai. It wasn't bad, all things considering. Free would probably say it wasn't real chai, but then…He was picky about his tea and tea-like beverages. Only the imported stuff would do for him; things from far away places like India and China. Herbal, the kind you had to strain the leaves from before you drank it. Some of it smelled awful and made Michel a little nauseous while it was brewing.

But it was part of what he loved about Free. He wouldn't be himself without the God-awful tea.

Free had been one of the few constant things in Michel's life, ever since he was six years old. Free had played with him when he was small, watched over him as he grew older, protected him in his adolescence. He remembered vaguely when he was young and Side A had existed. Free had always found time to play with him in the castle's garden, even when no one else could spare a moment for him. Free had been his own personal jungle gym back then; the man had always allowed Michel to crawl all over him. He had played with him, spoke to him as an equal and –most importantly- he had loved Michel.

The little blond had asked Free once why he saved him. Why hadn't he been killed or left behind? After all, he was just the brat of a couple of terrible people. Why not keep him from being just as terrible? There had been a long silence in which Free's dark eyes had peered into Michel's as if searching for something before he finally answered. "I saved you because you deserved a chance to live. You were innocent of your parents' crimes and did not need to pay for sins you did not commit." He explained softly, "You weren't a target and I was not so cruel as to kill an innocent child, just because you happened to be there."

"Life is cyclical." Michel had replied softly, "Couldn't it just round back to where it began? I could someday be like my parents." He hated that idea, but he had seen it enough; too many of their targets had offspring just as slimy. "We've seen that 'like father like son' stuff far too often."

"Ah, but the difference there is that you were not raised by your parents, Michel." Free rested a hand on his shoulder, "You were brought up to see truth for yourself. You are not your father and you are not Brandon and I doubt you will ever be the kind of person they were." It was the older man's job to keep Michel on the right track; to keep him from ever feeling the need to injure himself again. He didn't think he could bear to see tears of unhappiness in those soft eyes ever again. Michel was the one thing he couldn't live without and seeing the blond unhappy was like a personal injury. "Do not fret about it."

And Michel had looked at him in that way he often looks when Free is being mysterious. His tall companion had given him readings before -all of which were startlingly true- but he knew Free did readings when Michel had not asked and wondered what he found in those cards. He always felt that Free knew something about him of which he was not yet aware.

Heat shimmered off the sidewalk as he padded down the street, taking in the sights and sounds of downtown London. It was funny how everything seemed to dance in the heat like a mirage, but Michel didn't feel much like he was dancing. He was untouchable; the heat didn't even cause a sweat beneath his bangs. Not sweating was bad, but his body was so thin and always cool to the touch and he simply didn't perspire any more.

Everything around him seemed to buzz in slow motion. The other shoppers and merchants almost seemed surreal as he passed by, some waving to him, others nodding, slowly, mechanically…The hot air made everything seem to ooze, thick and viscous. They all knew him, in that impersonal sense of the word. Unless they frequented the Kitten's House, they didn't know his name. But they knew his face, they knew when to expect him passing by and they knew he always passed them alone.

Some of them wondered if he were real. He always looked so thoughtful; so sad. With a face so cherubic, hair so blond and movements so glidey, it was easy to imagine him as some sort of heavenly apparition. He only ever stopped if he was greeting some one or if he were doing a good deed - picking up an item that had been dropped, helping a woman or child carry things, just being all around good.

Michel never realized what they thought of him. The little niceties were things he just did without thinking. He had always been taught that it was important to help others and it had never crossed his mind not to. The Golden Rule had been a big part of his upbringing as a small child and KR had always prompted him to be polite and proper when in public. Even though he knew other people didn't see the things the way he did, it was simply so much easier to be nice to others.

He thought it was odd, looking back, that Mum had always told him to treat others as he wanted to be treated. She had been wonderful to him, so kind and attentive…Yet at the same time, she had been ruthless when it came to the rest of the world. His family had been Catholic. Very Catholic. And the Catholic Church believed in all that "love thy neighbor" bullshit, yet his parents thought nothing of destroying their neighbors' lives. They had been hypocritical, to say the least, but he had learned and learned well and thusly tried to be kind to every one he encountered.

His parents had done many things that were wrong during their lives. Michel was well aware of this. They had also believed many things that were wrong as well. He figured the joke must have been on them, though, since he had turned out to be so very gay in the end. Mum and Dad must have turned over in their graves the night he lost his virginity. He knew they never would have approved of his lifestyle; they had been of the belief that every good Catholic's duty was to produce as many children as they could.

Oh, it did make him laugh, now. How could he ever have believed what he had with Free was wrong and evil? It was beautiful and sweet and everything he wanted and he never could have had something close to this with any one else. Free himself wasn't particularly beautiful -not in the classic sense of the word, at least, but Michel could find many beautiful things within him- or sweet, but he was all that the little blond could ever desire. Their lives were so intertwined, and had been for so long, it was impossible for either of them to carry on without the other. He couldn't begin to imagine his world without Free; without the smell of strange teas or the Tarot cards he found in various places around either of their bedrooms. How could there have been life without Free? How could there ever possibly be?

Michel knew there was no way he could survive without Free. It was a subject he talked to death with Doctor Schulz: What would he do if he were to lose Free? He could say, to some degree of certainty, that if Free were gone, he would not hesitate to make a final cut. Schulz had cautioned him -"your life is too much some one else's and not enough your own"- but he didn't care. Life without Free could never be worth living.

He needed Free like he had never needed anything before. He needed soft words of reassurance and praise, quiet advice and thoughtful, heartfelt declarations of love. He needed to feel safe and protected, watched over and cared for. He needed those rough, calloused fingers touching him, soothing, stroking his hair, teasing his sensitive skin. He needed fast-paced sex when he was frustrated, gentle loving when he doubted himself and moments when he could completely lose himself to the feelings of being loved and needed. He thrived on these things; needed them, wanted them.

Doctor Schulz, as much as he liked her, didn't know all that much about their long history. To her, Free was simply a coworker and the older man in Michel's life. She couldn't seem to understand that Free was not simply an older boyfriend. Michel had never and would never dream of calling him such. He was indeed a partner and a lover, but he wasn't something so trivial as a boyfriend. It went far beyond that; their lives had been joined far before they had joined and their fates were too far entwined for them to be merely dating. Michel wasn't sure how to impress this fact upon Doctor Schulz without spilling all the little dirty secrets about their lives and so she simply believed them to be lovers and nothing more.

She was unhappy when Michel told him he wanted his life entrusted to Free. He was certain that she didn't approve of his relationship with the older man. It had been when he was seventeen that he first mentioned the growing sexual tension between them. She already knew a great deal about Free at that point, including the vast difference in their ages, and he distinctly remembered her pursing her lips and scribbling a lot of notes on the topic of sexual friction. She had asked a lot of questions about why he had wanted Free and what had attracted him to the quiet man, but he had no clue how to vocalize anything he'd wanted to say. How could he possibly explain that their souls had mingled and mated the day they met, when he was only six years old, and that he wouldn't be happy until they were truly together?

Fortunately, every one at home saw it as perfectly normal. Natural, even. Chloé had once remarked that they all knew it had only been a matter of time before Free would take Michel and make him his own (a remark which had caused the little blond to blush profusely) and that it had surprised none of them. They were both happier now that they had started sleeping together and seeing them happy generally made every one else happy. Seeing them snuggled on the couch together or stealing kisses or engaging in their own strange sort of teasing and flirting was a natural next step in their relationship and their intimacy had easily been accepted by the rest of the household.

How long had Free wanted him? God only knew. Michel knew it was probably since before he knew what it was to lust after another person; whenever he asked Free about it, the older man got a guilty look on his face and ignored the question. Knowing he had probably been about twelve or thirteen at the time which Free's sexual fascination had begun didn't make him love Free any less, however. He himself had always wanted something he couldn't name from the man who had rescued him. It was as if they both instinctively knew they'd found the person they were destined for that night so long ago and that was what made it okay. It was what had made it perfectly fine for Free to lust after him when he was still small, what made it okay for him to pursue some one so much older than him.

He knew society probably saw his relationship as somewhat unconventional; it was probably even considered sick and perverse in some circles. In his dark, brooding moments, he wondered how many people would have condemned Free as a pedophile and dragged him off to jail. He wondered what made Free any better than half of their targets. Where did you draw that fine line between okay and unacceptable and how did they manage to stay on the right side of that line? It was a dangerous, deadly dance in which they partook; they had been flirting with disaster since Michel was fifteen. Yet, somehow, they had learned the steps correctly, learned when to steal kisses, when to touch and when to be close.

Besides, it was love…How could it be wrong?

Michel was so lost in thought that he was surprised to find himself back in front of the shop, the empty plastic cup from the bakery in one hand, the bag with the muffin in the other. He blinked, staring up at the sign he had nailed up so long ago -"Kitten's House"- as if he was trying to distinguish whether or not it was really there. When had he gotten home?

The shop bells jangled merrily as he pushed the door open, only to be greeted by a blast of frigid air from the air conditioner. He felt a chill run down his spine and he shivered, arms instinctively rising to wrap around himself in an attempt to warm up.

Free's gaze was on him the second he crossed the threshold. Michel could feel dark eyes fix on his face; they were always focused on the one thing most important in Free's world. Michel knew he was the center of the universe; the moon and the stars in Free's sky. As soon as he entered the older man's line of vision, he was the direct focus of those beetle-black eyes. It wasn't that Free lost track of everything else…No, it was more that he was plenty capable of devoting most of his attention to his little lover while keeping the rest of the world on hold in the back of his mind.

"Turn the air conditioner down." Michel could hear Free's deep rumble from across the room and he paused mid-stride, watching for a moment as the man turned to Chloé, ordering him to change the AC's settings so it wouldn't be quite so cold in the shop. It was for Michel's benefit and he knew it; none of the other three men in the shop would have thought it was too cold. Free worried over how chilled the teen's skin always felt, worried that he would be getting sick all the time, and thusly began keeping a closer eye on the temperatures of the shop and the flat.

Chloé made a face at him -he hated when it was hot- and took his sweet time adjusting the little knob on the air conditioner to a lower setting. He didn't mind turning it down, really. He was fond of Michel, after all, and didn't want him to be sick. Who would he have to tease if that were the case? Ken wasn't as fun any more, Aya still didn't rise to the bait, Free simply didn't care and Yuki was hardly home. That left Michel as the recipient of Chloé's teasing and the older blond loved the reactions he wrought from the boy. He'd never known a person could blush so many different shades of red.

Besides, the fact that Michel was always cold was somewhat startling. It was about ninety-three outside, yet the teen was wearing pants and a long-sleeved shirt and looked perfectly comfortable. He'd had pneumonia that had landed him in the hospital the previous winter and ever since then he'd been chilled almost all the time, which caused Free to constantly fret over him and the house to generally remain at a steady temperature that didn't leave Michel shivering or putting on layers of clothes.

Chloé watched as Michel made a beeline for Free, offering him the white paper bag he was carrying. He was still amazed at how solemn his small friend had wound up as he grew. The Michel he had first met nearly eight years ago had been cheerful and noisy and boisterous. The young man who had just crossed the room was somber and introspective, almost the complete opposite of the child he had once been. At eighteen years old, Michel still had many of the quaint mannerisms he'd had as a child (The most endearing of which, Chloé thought, was his habit of adding "yes?" or "no?" to the end of his sentences), but he had toned down so much that he was like a completely different person.

He kind of missed the old Michel, in some weird way.

But he liked this bohemian Michel as well, who had no problem tugging Free down for a kiss when Aya had his back turned.

"There's a muffin in there…You can have it, if you want." Michel nodded towards the bag, "I bought it, but I don't really want it." Thinking about eating it made his stomach want to rebel; he was suddenly very much not hungry. This happened often enough. It was still very hard for him to eat, even though he no longer had a reason not to.

"You did not have much for breakfast, did you?" Free looked down at him, one hand rising to brush back Michel's hair so he could look him in the eyes. Green eyes peered back up at him; Michel didn't need to say anything for him to know the answer to his question. "Save the muffin for later," His expression softened, "We can share it."

"I get the top." Michel giggled, stretching up to kiss him softly, then snuggled close.

"You get the top, hmm?" Free arched a brow, "Is that a promise? Or a threat?"

An impish grin crossed the little blond's face. "You'll have to wait until later to find out!" He laughed, dancing away from his partner to fetch an apron, momentarily like his old self.

Free watched him go, smiling to himself. Days like this -where Michel could laugh like he used to- were the best. He loved Michel in spite of all the bad things and angst, but he sometimes missed the blond whirlwind of cheer that he had once been. It was one of those things he kept to himself; he'd never tell Michel he missed the cheerful exuberance. He was proud of how far the little blond had come and didn't want to cause any damage, so he had readily accepted this quieter version of Michel into his life, keeping memories of the old Michel tucked away in his heart.

The teen wandered back to the front of the shop, pulling a light yellow Kitten's House apron over his head and tying it neatly in the back. He unbuttoned and rolled up his sleeves, pausing to push a stray curl from his eyes, and humming. Free watched those small fingers working, anticipating their touch on his skin later in the day. The little blond was like some sort of drug; addictive, intoxicating. Free couldn't live without him.

"Can we go out tonight?"

The soft query startled Free back to reality and he looked up, meeting Michel's gaze. There was a moment were they both seemed to drown in one another, just looking, Free's dark eyes staring down into endless grey-green. "Ja," He finally managed to disentangle himself from that haunted gaze, "If you would like." Going out, for the two of them, was not the same as a date. They were more like an old married couple than anything; it seemed so silly to call it a date. They had been partners since Michel was fourteen and, although the beginnings of the relationship had contained nothing sexual, there was no way they were like the masses of people floundering to find the one they belong with. No, "going out" was never a date.

"I think I'd like it." Michel murmured, stifling a yawn, "I'm in the mood for something French today. Something French, and then the two of us alone for the evening. I don't particularly feel like being around every one tonight…Especially since Ken will probably invite Kurumi back for dinner." He ran a hand through his hair, wincing slightly as his fingers caught in a snarled curl.

Free nodded, reaching out and deftly untangling the curl. He let his fingers linger a moment, brushing through the thin blond locks, watching as a happy expression crossed the boy's cherubic face at the contact, and wondering again how Michel did not understand just how beautiful he was.


	3. Part 3

_Part 3_

Sure enough, Ken showed up mid-afternoon with Kurumi in tow.

Michel really didn't see her all that often any more; she was busy with college and a part-time job at a neighborhood bookstore. She saw Yuki and Haku on campus and Ken went to visit her a lot; sometimes Chloé and even Aya went with him. Michel could have visited her, if he wanted to, but he never really wanted to. It was easy to come up with excuses; his life was hectic enough that he could always make something up -work, therapy, vet appointments for the cat, errands, chores- that wouldn't leave Ken wondering if he was just making an excuse.

She had always been closest with Ken, anyway, and Michel wondered sometimes if they didn't have a little something going on between them. She was pretty and cheerful and seemed like Ken's type, not that Michel really knew Ken's preferences all that well.

"Hi, Michel!" Kurumi smiled at him, her brown eyes sparkling. She had let her hair grow out again; it hung in two loose braids falling just down past her shoulders. She was dressed for the weather in a knee-length, flouncy skirt and a lacy little tank top, a pair of bamboo-and-satin flip-flops on her feet. She wore makeup now, sometimes, and there was no doubting she was a pretty girl, but…

Michel just didn't look at girls that way.

He didn't understand all the fuss over girls. They were loud and chattery and intimidating. They wore clothes that emphasized parts of the female body he never wanted to see (What was one supposed to do with a girl's breasts, anyway?), talked about things he never wanted to know about (Like PMS…The very initials made him shudder), and giggled over _everything_. Sure, they bought plenty of flowers, but they were strange, frightening beings and Michel couldn't picture a situation where he'd ever want to be with one.

Plus, they always squealed over how cute he was and speculated about his sexuality. Was he or wasn't he? That seemed to be the hot gossip topic lately; all the girls who came in whispered about him. He could always feel their eyes on him when he was working and he could hear their not-so-hushed whispers as they argued over whether he and Free were together or just very close friends. One of them had even tried to set him up with her friend, which had left him rather flustered as he attempted to explain that, while he was flattered, he certainly wasn't interested.

Kurumi had been no exception, once she got used to life in London. After her initial shyness wore off, she was always chattering, always laughing, always…being a girl. She loved shopping and once she had pieced together that Michel was oh so very gay (how it took her so long to figure out, he was never quite sure), she was always asking him to go shopping with her. Chloé would go, of course, but Michel was closer to her age and she seemed to be under the impression that he would be much more fun to shop with.

Michel liked shopping, but not with Kurumi. What did he want to look at girls' clothes for? His clothes were decidedly more male now, ever since Chloé had forced him into that skirt for _that_ mission. He didn't even wear his kilts very much any more, even though Free liked them, because they just reminded him too much of that stupid skirt. Kurumi liked to look at pretty, lacy things in bright colors and bold patterns. She favored skirts over pants and almost always looked like a proper young lady and shopping with her was not something Michel found particularly enjoyable.

But she meant well, and he felt slightly guilty always telling her no.

"Hullo, Kurumi." He offered her a polite smile, "How are you?" In spite of the things about her that annoyed him, Michel did like Kurumi very much. She was sweet and caring and an over-all good person. It wasn't her fault she'd been born a girl and he certainly wouldn't hold it against her, even though she was still a bit of a mystery to him.

"I'm fine!" She beamed, "I'm real busy at the book store. We've had a lot of people in buying things this summer. Fall classes are starting soon though, so I'll have to cut back on my hours." Her hands fluttered excitedly as she spoke, arms waving for emphasis.

Michel watched, nodding periodically, as she rambled. He had been like that, once. He remembered still when he had been so exuberant in everything he did, but now it just seemed like a waste of energy. He knew he didn't have a lot of energy because he didn't eat well, so he didn't want to waste what he had on being overly-cheerful. Besides, there was no point in pretending he was happy all the time and that everything was hunky-dory when every one damn well knew it wasn't.

"When Ken-kun invited me for dinner, I knew there was no way I could refuse." She was still prattling, "Every one knows he cooks the best, after all. And we haven't had a dinner all together in so long! I hope he makes yakisoba chicken; I like that best."

The little blond fought an urge to wrinkle his nose. He had never really gotten into all Ken's Asian cooking. It had a bit too much flavor for him. He liked things that were more plain; things he could identify as he ate them. Ken was a good cook and everything always smelled so good, but it had a lot of oil in it, and tofu, and Michel could never bring himself to eat more than a few bites before he couldn't eat any more. "Free and I are going out tonight." He informed her softly.

For a split second, she looked positively crushed. Then her face lit up. "You're going on a date!" She exclaimed, "That's so cute!"

"No." He blinked at her, "It's not a date. It's just out." It seemed so silly that any one would think of it as a date. He and Free didn't date. Dating was for people who weren't so tangled up in one another. Chloé dated casually, occasionally. Yuki and Haku used to date, but after four years, they were beyond that stage. Michel had never once been on a date, but he didn't think it was any great loss.

"Just 'out'?" Kurumi planted her hands on her hips, "Where are you going?"

It was funny how they had switched places like this. Three years ago, Michel would have been the nosy, obnoxious one and Kurumi would have been quiet and blushing and flustered. The role reversal had been a slow one; as Michel matured and Kurumi grew more used to her new life, they had seemed to grow into each other's old personalities until Michel was the quiet, thoughtful one and Kurumi was as outgoing as he used to be.

"We're getting dinner." Why couldn't she just leave him alone? "I'm in the mood for French and Ken doesn't like French and therefore will not cook it for me."

"Dinner is a date!" She insisted, "You're going to eat. Together. And you're a couple. That's a date."

Michel shook his head. "We don't 'date,' Kurumi." A soft frown crossed his face, "It's not like that at all…Dating is for people who haven't been together so long; who have nothing better to do with their time than take complete strangers to dinner and make fools of themselves."

"Michel!" She all but stamped a foot, "How are you possibly so unromantic?"

He shrugged, scrawny shoulders lifting slightly. "I've loved Free since I was six. That's twelve years, more than half of my life. It was romantic when we were trying to hide... But now…" He trailed off, unsure what he meant to say. He didn't care for romance or any of that sappy, syrupy stuff and he couldn't picture Free being particularly romantic, anyway. They loved one another and that was that. What was the point of romance?

It had startled him, realizing that he had indeed loved Free since the night they first crossed paths. As angry and upset as he had been when he found out that Free had not only rescued him, but caused his need for rescue as well, the fond feelings he had retained for the man far outweighed the anger. He could have died that night, for no reason at all…Yet he was still alive. Sure, his entire family could have survived, had Side A not killed them, but for how long? There had been so much death and destruction around him when he was small…He didn't think they would have lasted much longer. If they had to die when he was small, it was better that it happened the way it had happened. He didn't think he would have been able to forgive any one else -only Free- and he probably would have simply become an angry, confused person.

"You are impossible!" Kurumi huffed, "Hopeless." She pursed her lips, looking as if she were about to say something else, when Yuki burst into the room, Haku on his heels.

"Michel! Shit, Michel, have you seen this!" He was waving something around, his hair in his eyes and his usual dower scowl absent from his face. He looked fairly excited instead, as if something wonderful had happened. When he stopped moving long enough for Michel to catch sight of what he was holding, he realized it was a newspaper. "Read it; Oh-my-God, you need to read it!" One of Yuki's fingers was jabbing at whatever it was Michel needed to read.

He took it from Yuki; unfolding, spreading it over the coffee table that Ken liked to put his feet on. The world seemed to stop as the words of the title Yuki had been pointing at leapt from the page and his heart leapt into his throat. The letters seemed blood-red and glaring, even though they were black-on-newsprint. Arrested. Rape. THOMAS.

The name stood out from the article; it was almost as if it shouting at him. His heart pounded painfully at the sight of that hated name. Thomas Kenyon, clear as day. It was there, spattered across the page. _Community Leader's Son Arrested for Rape._ Thomas. In jail. Michel's head swam. Thousands of tiny words were crammed onto the page, all of them melding together in to one. The article jumbled through his mind. _Nineteen year old college student Thomas Kenyon, son of the illustrious Alfred Kenyon and his socialite wife, Marian, was arrested late last night for the statutory rape and of a sixteen year old boy. _Pictures of the victim, one Philip Campbell, brown-haired, tall, stringy. Not at all like Michel, except for his eyes. Broken. _He kept saying I was a fag and he was going to prove it._

Michel didn't realize he was tearing the paper into little shreds until Yuki caught his arm. The American's mouth was moving, but the blood was rushing so fast that it was all Michel could hear. Strips of newspaper rained through the room as he jerked out of Yuki's grasp and as his hands rose, clamping over his ears, trying to block out the sound of his own memories. _You like it rough…You know you want it…Bet I could force him to give me a blowjob too…_The world blurred out of focus as hot tears pooled and streamed down his face, rolling off his lips and into his mouth. The taste of salt stung bitter on his tongue; he cried almost everyday, why was this so different?

The picture of Philip Campbell kept appearing behind his eyes.

He saw his own face in that picture.

Some one must have gone to find Free. Michel struggled when strong arms wrapped around him; trapping him in place and keeping him from escaping. His heart was trying to break through his chest; it was attempting to pound its way out. He wanted to scream, but no sound would come out. Just like that night. His mind registered that it was Free holding him, trying to calm him down, but his body wouldn't let him stop fighting and just be still. There was a hand stroking his shoulder, an arm wrapped around his middle. Safe spots. Places he wouldn't freak when he was touched. His breathing and his heart began to slow; murmuring voices were having a conversation over his head.

He inhaled deeply, letting it all out in a shaky breath. The world came back into focus; Free's pale, muscular arms around him. Yuki standing a few paces away, saying something. Haku and Kurumi together in the doorway, both looking aghast. He bet both of them had scoffed when Yuki and Ken, respectively, had told them he was capable of such outbursts. He wondered if he had scared them. Yuki didn't look at all upset; it was a common enough occurrence for him to be used to it.

He tried to apologize for the outburst, but Yuki beat him to it. "I'm sorry, Michel. I should have thought about it first…It didn't cross my mind that you might be anything but excited to see him arrested." He reached behind him for Haku's hand, pulling his lover close and stroking his side reassuringly. Haku hated loud arguments and always got nervous when people around him had breakdowns or fights.

Kurumi stood woodenly in the doorway, eyes wide and round.

_It's okay_. Michel tried to answer, but a hiccupping sob slipped through his lips instead. Free's rough fingers brushed tears from his cheeks and he heaved a sigh, leaning against the older man and trying to soak up his strength. He was sagging, a tree laden with too much snow, and needed his companion to hold him up, lest he go crashing to the ground. "Thomas is in jail." He finally managed, fingers tightening around whatever was closest, which happened to be the belt loop of Free's well-worn jeans.

"Ja." Dark eyes peered down at him, studying. "How does that make you feel?" They had all learned to ask questions and allow Michel to validate and explain his feelings. Free took this job, as he took any, very seriously. He cradled the small body against his own, protective, and wished Yuki would get every one else out of the room.

"Upset. Relieved. Angry." Michel's words matched his tone, "I want to hurt him for what he did to that boy; for what he did to me. It's not fair that it took so long for him to be arrested. That he had to hurt God-only-knows how many other boys before any one took notice. He won't go to jail. The only justice that exists is the kind we make for ourselves." He heaved a great sigh, "Why did I manage to escape being raped? It could have been my name in that article. Maybe that boy wouldn't have had to suffer if Thomas had taken me instead. Did I let more lives be destroyed by not standing up for myself?"

Free's arms tightened. He hated thinking about everything Michel had gone through. It was like a blow to the heart, knowing they hadn't protected him as well as they could have; knowing that if they had all just paid a little more attention…He still hadn't totally gotten over his own failure in that aspect; even after he knew, he hadn't been sure how to help the boy. And thoughts of that night at the café…It made the blood boil in his veins and he wanted to hurt some one whenever it was mentioned. He should have killed the bastard when he'd first had the chance.

"He's going to court, Michel." Yuki spoke up softly, "They're trying him for what he did to that kid. You could speak up. Hell, I could speak up. With Krypton backing us, there's no way he could get off. You could help yourself and that Philip kid and any one not brave enough to come forward."

Speak up. Yuki was suggesting he speak. In front of a lot of people. He could feel his throat closing up already. He pressed back against Free, shaking his head. "I'll think about it." Would they believe him, after four years? He had never gone to the police, but Krypton and Doctor Schulz both knew what had happened, as well as every one here at home. Did he dare come forward? He didn't want to put his ugly little self, pathetic and unable to fight back, in front of a bunch of strangers.

He pulled away from Free silently. It was like a dream as he stumbled out of the room, past Kurumi, and up the steps. His fingers were itching to be brown-streaked; he wanted his pastels. Free trailed him like a shadow as he stopped, first in the spacious room with the white sheets, the room of no-dreams and happy nights, then the bathroom, and finally his own room, gathering things at each stop. Cigar box full of pastels and charcoals from Free's closet, Q-tips from the bathroom's medicine cabinet, sketch pad from beneath his own bed.

The branches sprung to life of their own accord, dirt brown and muddy, streaked with green and orange. Fingers reaching towards the sky; gnarled and bony. Leaves hanging over, spilling back towards the ground, a pale, grey-green waterfall. Same color as Michel's eyes. Free watched from the doorway as the little blond worked. Brown-on-brown; his sketch pad had several different colors of paper. Pale blue sky, not a single cloud. His fingers rubbed through the oily mess, blending and spreading, Q-tips for the small places his nimble fingers couldn't quite fit. The trunk spread down, melding into the ground, spelling a single root-word: Pain. And from it sprung beauty as the magnificent Weeping Willow began to take a recognizable form.

Half an hour later, the best -and last- tree Michel would ever draw sprawled -completed- across the tan paper. He sat back on his heals, looking at it, and whispered. "It's finished."

Free knew he didn't mean the tree.

He crossed the room to the smaller man, stooping to lift him up. Michel still weighed next to nothing and still fit nicely in his arms. He pulled the blond up, up, up into his embrace, unmindful of the oily, smudgy mess, holding him close and kissing his hair. Michel wrapped slender limbs around him, burying his face in Free's shoulder and inhaling; safe and warm. They didn't need to say anything; there were no words to exchange. They just held one another, fear and pain draining slowly away to be replaced with other things, long-forgotten feelings of hope and contentment.

After a moment or two that could have gone on for an eternity, Michel pulled his face back to look up at Free.

And smiled.

It was a real smile, one that went all the way up and lit his eyes, causing them to shine jade-green. His face looked younger that way, which was a strange thing to think because he _was_ so young. He had such an old soul; it was easy to forget he was only eighteen. Free stared at him for a moment; it had been a long time since he'd last seen that smile. He tugged the boy closer, his own thin, quirky half-smile crossing his face as he coaxed Michel's chin up for a kiss, tasting that smile and liking it.

Michel was definitely a much better kisser than he had been the first clumsy time he tried to kiss Free. He had learned when to open up, when to yield and when to take. Kissing was an art form, something which had to be learned and mastered. The little blond had learned well and Free found his kissing positively intoxicating. He usually tasted like fruit, mostly strawberries, or sometimes honey; sweet things, but natural. And Free liked natural things, not the sugary stuff Michel used to taste like.

The little blond pulled back to look Free in the eye. He lifted a hand, rubbing the back of it along one striped cheek, fond and affectionate. Free nipped at one of his fingers, then kissed his palm softly and he giggled, scrawny legs wrapping tighter around the other man's waist. "I don't want to go out any more." He snuggled close, "Let's just stay here." He suddenly wanted to be very close to the people who had helped him all those years. "I can picture it now…Ken will make something I don't like and you'll spend the whole meal scowling because I've not eaten enough. Yuki will eat everything put before him, then look for a snack. Kurumi will talk too much, Haku will talk too little and Chloé will flirt with Aya, who'll only glare at him. Just like always." He rested his head on Free's shoulder, "And I think I need that now."

"All right." It didn't matter to Free if they stayed in or went out, as long as Michel was content. The little blond's happiness was his first priority, always. It had always been that way; when Michel was happy, Free was happy.

"I can move on now." Michel smiled up at him, expression soft, "_We_ can move on. Together." Hope was a feeling he hadn't experienced very often, but when he felt it, it felt good. He knew -he just knew- that they could be happy now, because he could lay everything to rest. Finally.

"I like the sound of that." Free's smile wasn't a smile, really. His smiles rarely were. But Michel could recognize them for what they were. Free had made peace with himself, for the most part, and his smiles came easier, but most of the time, they still weren't what the average person would consider to be a true smile.

"Let me down." Michel half-slid from the older man's arms, "I need to wash my hands and change my shirt before dinner." He pulled away, hands lingering momentarily, their fingers curled together. He turned to go, but Free pulled him back again, tipping his face up for another kiss. Michel stared up at him as they broke apart, cheeks flushed, then grinned and snuggled close again. "Pick out a shirt for me, okay?"

"Ja." Free brushed back his hair, planting another kiss on his forehead, "You go wash up."

-----

"Do you understand now?"

"Hmm?" Michel lifted his head, hair falling in his eyes. He was curled against Free's side, head resting on his chest, listening to the other man's heartbeat. Free's calloused fingers were stroking lightly over a scar on Michel's hip, periodically dipping down to trace over the tattoo on his lower back.

"Do you understand?"

The little blond burrowed closer, yawning cutely. "Understand…?" He didn't think he was capable of understanding a thing; there wasn't a clear thought in his mind. It was always that way after; his brain always seemed to melt.

"…How beautiful you are." Free rumbled, kissing his hair, "Do you understand?" His fingers continued caressing pale skin, causing the tiny body nestled at his side to shiver. He had yet to come down from that euphoric high, but –unlike Michel- he was capable of thinking through the haze wrought of their passion.

"If I say no," Michel giggled, "Will there be many more nights like this?" He turned on his stomach to smile up at Free, one pale thin arm draped across Free's broad chest. He had always been particularly fond of seeing his lover in the moonlight; Free's sweat dampened hair shone silver, his dark eyes glittered like coals. They were both so pale that they seemed to glow in moonlight. Michel couldn't help reflecting that they were like something out of a fairy story; himself, the little Celtic imp, his lover, the quiet, elfish man shrouded in mystery.

Free arched a brow, a half smile on his face. "I would have to prove it to you somehow, wouldn't I?" He rolled over onto his side, snuggling Michel –who squeaked in surprise- in his arms. Even with the two inches he had grown, the younger man still fit perfectly into the curve of Free's body; it was as if they were created to complete one another like that. "Since you do not listen when I tell you, I have to be…creative."

"And it's such a terrible burden for you." Michel nuzzled at his jaw, teasing, "It's a hassle for you, carting me off to bed and striping me naked. You hate burying yourself in me; hate hearing me cry your name. You hate the feel of—"

Here he was silenced by a firm kiss, the force of which left Michel breathless. Free's laugh at the look on his face was a deep rumble; he pressed a softer kiss to the teen's forehead, holding him close. "I am not quite sure I approve of the things coming out of your little mouth."

"You only have yourself to blame." The little blond recovered enough to make a saucy reply, green eyes sparkling. "I was perfectly innocent until you."

Free snorted. "You may be able to fool every one else, but you cannot fool me." He purred, a hand resuming its stroking, wandering dangerously close to Michel's bottom. "I know just how innocent you really are."

"Again, your fault." Michel yawned, suddenly very tired. He had come crashing down from the euphoric high of afterglow and was now more than ready for sleep.

Free pulled a snowy white sheet up over them, knowing that the yawn signaled the little blond's coming down. It always took him a while to unwind after sex, but when he started yawning, it was the beginning of the end. It was only a matter of time before the younger man would be asleep. He stopped teasing; cuddling Michel close and dropping another light kiss on his curls. "Go to sleep" He murmured against the top of Michel's head, "I know you are tired."

"S'your fault…" Michel yawned again, burrowing close and nuzzling against Free's neck, eyes slowly drifting shut. He could feel calloused fingers stroking his side soothingly, could feel the beat of Free's heart against his own chest. It was almost as if their hearts had synced up and beat in perfect time; after so many years, that didn't surprise him. "Stay with me," He mumbled, half expecting the answer to be no, "in the morning?"

"Ja; I will stay." Free's expression softened at the neediness in his tiny lover's voice. While the almost-four years since that great period of self-hatred had helped rebuild his self-esteem, Michel was still so vulnerable. He needed to be reminded –and he needed to be reminded often- how special he was, or he began to doubt himself all over again. "I still have to prove to you that you are beautiful, after all."

"Mm…I look forward to it." The younger man smiled against Free's skin, pressing a soft kiss to his collarbone, "I may have to start complaining that I'm ugly more often. It got nice-" Another yawn broke up the sentence, "-results."

"Go to sleep, little imp, or you will be too tired for anything in the morning." Free held Michel close to his heart, petting down his back and nuzzling his hair. "And to hell with Doctor Schulz…Tomorrow, we are breaking routine."

"Can we go out?" Michel snuggled closer and let his eyes slide shut. Saturday was the one day they both consistently had time off together and he liked the make the best of those days. Free always knew the most interesting places to go, the smallest, least crowded places to eat and the best spots in the park for them to just be alone together.

"Out where?" Free's hands continued stroking the smooth skin of Michel's back. That was his favorite spot on the young man's body, where there wasn't a single imperfection in the pale flesh. He wasn't ashamed on Michel's behalf; the scars were simply a part of their life. But those scars -reminders of all those years of pain- only served to make him sad. The tiny blond was beautiful irregardless, but sometimes he liked to forget the grief; to remember only the happiness in both of their lives.

"Doesn't matter where." The younger man murmured, "As long as we're together." He was practically purring at the feel of fingers caressing his tattoo and running up his spine and another yawn slipped through his lips. "You think of someplace."

"I will." Free ran fingers through those blond curls, pressing soft kisses to Michel's brow. "You sleep." His lover's tiny body was starting to feel cold to the touch, something which happened enough to not worry him, but which caused him to fret over the boy. He pulled the sheet around them more securely, reaching across Michel to pull a second blanket over him.

It was only a matter of seconds before the sound of slightly-raspy, shallow breathing filled the room. Ever since that awful bout of pneumonia he'd had in the winter, Michel's breathing had been kind of choked while he slept. It had taken him a long time to make a full recovery, and that was putting it kindly. He was by no means recovered in the true sense of the word; the chest rattle was still there and probably wouldn't go away. His doctors had tsk-tsked over his low body weight, saying that was why he was susceptible to illnesses like pneumonia, and telling him to eat more. Free still remembered those nightmarish days; the deathlike pallor of Michel's skin, the slow, slow rise and fall of his chest during his labored breathing, the intravenous drip snaking into one slender wrist. The coughing had been so bad one day that Michel had been bringing up blood.

For the first time in a very long time, as he had looked down at the still, fragile form of the sick young man while he slept, Free had been scared. People _did_ die from pneumonia and Michel was already so frail because he was so underweight. He had stayed at the hospital nearly twenty-four hours a day, sleeping only when staying awake became too difficult, helping Michel sit up during coughing fits, holding his clammy hand and watching him sleep, hoping -**hoping**- he would be okay.

He still watched Michel sleep, almost every night.

Free didn't get much sleep, nor did he require much sleep. Most of his nights were spent keeping watch over the small blond angel nestled at his side, making sure Michel was warm enough and that his breathing didn't become too uneven. He would die if anything further ever happened to Michel; life without him was simply not something Free wished to experience ever again.

So he kept vigil, nuzzling the thin curls, stroking soft skin and more often then not finding himself loving the boy even more. He had never known it was possible to feel so strongly for one person; never knew it would be so incredibly easy to become so emotionally attached to another person. It frightened him at times -What would he do if Michel decided he wanted some one his own age? When would he stop worrying after his little lover? When had his life ceased to be his own?- but he knew he wouldn't change it for anything.

Who else would have them, if they didn't have one another? They were the broken; the walking wounded. Years of pain and killing had left them damaged; both of their souls were hurt too much. The small injuries would heal, but the big ones would never really knit themselves back together. Michel's guilt and anxiety -all his small idiosyncrasies- left him unfit for a normal relationship and Free couldn't remember a time he had ever loved or wanted any one more than Michel. They had been part of each other's breaking; it made sense that they helped piece each other back together as well. Together, even with the past that was so hard to forget, they were whole.

And Free wouldn't change that for the world.


End file.
